


Toward Atonement

by semiiramiis (HikaruAdjani)



Series: Ties That Bind [3]
Category: World of Warcraft
Genre: Gen, World of Warcraft: Wrath of the Lich King
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-05-29
Updated: 2019-03-01
Packaged: 2019-05-15 18:45:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 10,724
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14795939
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HikaruAdjani/pseuds/semiiramiis
Summary: Sequel to Ties that Bind and Tarnished. Brigitte's journey out of the dark continues when she accepts the position as one of Darion's generals.





	1. Chapter 1

Brigitte had forgotten. She'd forgotten just what it was like to be among the living, forgotten just how loud and boisterous they could be, how oppressively present they could be. She'd grown used to the subdued natures of those around her, even back when she'd been in place as the Onslaught's so called High General, those around her had been distant and cold. They'd been living, technically, but they'd only been tools and pawns. They'd lost that part of them that bred this joy in company, this part of them that held camaraderie high. They'd become almost as quiet as the members of the Ebon Blade who had surrounded Brigitte since her rescue. The noises of the Onslaught had been those of routines drilled into them over years, empty prayers and desolate bells. The life had drained from them just as surely as it had been taken from the death knights who surrounded her now. 

I learn to live again amongst the dead. There was an irony there, but who valued that more than those who had lost life and had no chance of reclaiming it? 

Once, she had sought this sort of surroundings out, reveled in them, the food, the drink, the companionship. When had she lost that? Once, being an officer, a leader, had made her the first among equals. That had all faded away when she'd lost herself and had been driven into the role of a false leader, a twisted shadow of the commander she had once been. But now, she felt out of place, overwhelmed, and when had that ever been the case? These were just people, soldiers...once, she'd shared an almost instant bond with those. She'd been raised with people just like this, to be one of them. Now she was a stranger, now she had more in common with the two men she stood with; the two silent, ominous forms looming over her. 

Why am I here? She understood that, eventually, she would have to step out in public. She'd volunteered for that, she'd asked for that. Certainly, Darion had stated firmly that he intended to use her as an adviser and that made sense. She'd been geared to fill that role, and it was fairly obvious that the sheer magnificence of that gear had been designed to draw attention to her...there was no hiding when she was harnessed in this. Darion had stated he intended to hide her in plain sight, but she hadn't quite realized just how far to the front that he meant to push her. 

It's too soon for this.

No, it was too damned late. The longer she put this off, the more difficult it was going to be. If she wasn't willing to stand up here, now, then she should have just taken Darion's first offer to send her to a nice, safe, warm place far away from this. That would be intolerable, to sit safely by while the battle she'd been truly looking for was joined without her. She'd spent so many years trying to destroy the Scourge threat, and that would only be accomplished here, not picking away at those undead infesting the devastated remnants of Lordaeron. No, she was exactly where she was supposed to be, standing in a hall filled with loud soldiers. If she just glanced over them, if she didn't focus on their blazons, this could have been a memory of years ago, decades ago. When she'd been younger, she'd been surrounded by soldiers with Lordaeron's blazon, or that of the Silver Hand, but those had fallen by the wayside. Then they'd worn that of the Scarlet Crusade, and finally, the Onslaught's variant. None of those were displayed here...there was the familiar lion of Stormwind and a few that she did not recognize. She'd let herself be cut off from the world and those in it. Never again. 

“This way.” Darion's voice was barely above a chill breath, but Brigitte heard it as clearly as if he was whispering the words just an inch from her ear. He led her through the packed hall while the crowds parted before him, headed straight for the door on the other side. He barely paused for the two guards stationed on either side to acknowledge him, give him the barest pass before he opened the door and strode through, Brigitte and Thassarian on his heels. Beyond was a briefing room, exactly like a dozen others that Brigitte had stood in, both on this continent and in Lordaeron. The very familiarity of it set her nerves on edge, everything had changed, why did it seem like nothing had? It was easy to know the difference on Acherus. There were none of these echoes of a past life there, only the fresh memories of her new one. 

*

Darion's move to push her to the table's edge was subtle, but her first instinct was still to slide away from him, to keep a slight distance from him and he seemed to be aware of it, using it to his advantage. But try as she might, and she had tried, she couldn't quite get over the visceral unease she experienced when he, or any of the others, were too close. It was slight, nagging, but always present. No matter what, no matter how much she fought it, they caused her that hint of distress. She could fight it and win, but she knew trying it here would go against what Darion wanted from her. He wanted her at the edge of the table...either she accepted his gentle crowding or he would give her a physical push to get her there. 

She made the edge of the map table, given space by two of the armored forms arrayed around it. Paladins. She was once again standing pauldron to pauldron with paladins, paladins who had not fallen with her. It was not an idea she was entirely comfortable with, but that was why she wore the gear of the Ebon Blade instead of wearing any one of the myriad of tabards that the others wore. She would need to earn their trust and she was much more at ease with that idea than with the thought that she deserved their trust simply for still being a paladin. At least these were all strangers, she wasn't going to be required to deal with someone she'd known...once. 

This is not the first time you've stood at a map table, you know how to do this. 

Yes, yes, she did. Even when she'd been rotten and lost, she'd been better than competent at this. She took a long moment to absorb the map, ignoring the open stares that the others gave her, ignoring the pause in the briefing. While she probably knew Northrend better than most of the living here, she had the harsh luck to know the other side of the continent from where she stood. 

“I want you with the west shore push. I want you in Valiance Keep. I want you as far from New Hearthglen as I can get you.” It was a prudent decision from Darion, it was the correct decision, but it still left her far away from the area she was familiar with. 

“You must be...Sorrow. General Sorrow?” The man who had been giving the briefing finally broke his pause and she considered his words.

I am High General Brigitte Abbendis... She twisted her lips, her features safely obscured in the shadows of her cowl. She'd shed her helmet freely enough, the cowl was the object that had been enchanted to hide her identity. “I am Sorrow.” It took a bit for her to claim it, but she had to be called something in place of her actual name and it would do. Darion's gaze was an almost palpable chill focused on the back of her head and she accepted the rest of it all in the next sentence. “General of the Ebon Blade.” Darion had been very clear about that one, he considered her a general still and now she was claimed by the Ebon Blade. Which made her a general of the Ebon Blade. She was hazy on just how many he happened to have, if there were others, she didn't know of them. But she had only been among their number for a few weeks, much of that time spent in cautious isolation. She didn't know a great deal about them...yet. 

Her words caused some faint mutterings around the table, barely audible over the background noise from the hall. Brigitte knew that Darion had demanded the right to have a general on the ground as part of his commitment to the offensive, parity for the command that the Alliance Vanguard was going to be exercising over his people, a nod to the very large amount of intelligence that they had handed over to support this. This map reflected that, Brigitte could see all of the Scarlet strongholds she'd given up marked on it. I sold them out. Yes, she had, and it was just one more terrible thing that she was guilty of. She had sent them here, and then she'd turned on them. 

They are as corrupted and lost as the Scourge is. 

She'd said that before, thought that before, told herself that she was doing the right thing...before. And she'd been horribly wrong then. But what else did she have to guide her but what she saw to be right and necessary? But there was no one here who was blameless to show her the way, Darion had gone just as badly as she had. 

“We were expecting Thalanor.” 

And you get me instead. Darion was silent, waiting for her to take the initiative and speak on her own behalf. He'd become involved only if he needed to, and if he did, she would have failed. “You expected the Ebon Blade's second?” While she didn't have him accurately identified, she was certain that he wasn't the Vanguard's second, yet he expected theirs. “Thalanor stays with our forces.” That only made sense, Darion didn't need to tell her it was how they intended on playing this. She made sense here, playing both field general and liaison. Dread Commander Thalanor made sense right where he was, on Acherus, with the Ebon Blade's main cohort. They'd follow him, she was a stranger to them still. 

“Put that way, no.” He stared at her and she stared back, relying on the fact that the Ebon Blade held its secrets close. He'd love to ask the questions but she didn't need to answer them. Who was she? Why did Darion, of all people, call her general? She stood here with a hidden face, a false name and absolutely no history, which put her on the same standing as many in the Ebon Blade. It was a gift she wasn't about to spoil and it was perversely satisfying to be able to keep things to herself. She didn't trust him or any of these others with that information...maybe, maybe, if Tirion was here, she'd trust him. Or maybe not, she wasn't certain. 

“She is a better choice for this, Barton. I've done you a favor.” Darion growled. “There will be no other from our ranks. Deal with her, or don't deal with us at all.” 

Brigitte ignored the words, leaning in to get a better look at the map, her attention locked on her current location. While she'd had forces on Northrend for years, this was not the area they'd been focused on. She'd been readying the Scarlet Crusade for evacuation, their lands in Lordaeron becoming more and more obviously an untenable position...following the visions that came to her as she slept. Visions. Her heart sank and she gripped the table edge for a long moment, fighting down a wobbly nausea. Not visions. Not true visions.

Well, maybe or maybe not, but the imperative had been valid, the loss of New Avalon and Tyr's Hand proved that she'd had at least that part of it correct. She had not been so blinded that she'd missed the obvious and she'd made the right calls at the right times to at least begin the evacuation to Northrend. It had taken years to construct New Hearthglen, and that cost of materiel and manpower had condemned her northern Lordaeron holdings. 

They were gone anyway. 

True enough. Looking back at things she could not fix only hurt, it did not help. She was here now, far from the Onslaught, far from everything that had dragged her down for years. “So, what are we doing?” She asked, dragging the paladin's attention from Darion and back to her...where it belonged. They didn't have much time, she needed to catch up quickly.


	2. Chapter 2

There was a chill in the room that Bridge had been shown to, half of it was from the fact that it faced northeast, toward the worst of Northrend's weather and half was from the cold weight that surrounded Darion. He stood in the farthest, most shadowed corner, and she doubted if it was a coincidence that he was as distant from the living here that he could get and still be in the main building. 

“So I get the cold room. I am not surprised.” She sighed, to begin the conversation. Darion had never been a voluble sort, even when he'd been alive. Neither was she, but if they each clung to their natures, they could wait here in silence for hours. And, in spite of the temperature and rustle of a draft, it was a good room. It was spacious and clean, a curtained four poster bed dominated the space, a pile of blankets folded on the chest at its foot. A table rested next to the empty fireplace, a wash stand with pewter bowl and ewer stood in the warmest corner. If the curtains were drawn against the draft, if there was a fire coaling in the hearth, it would be more than pleasant enough for her tastes.

“They haven't quite grasped two things about you yet. I presume that you will be moved the moment that they do.” There was an edge to Darion's words that promised she would be moved at that point...or else. But he'd always been protective, even when he'd been a child. She was willing to bet that had been honed in ugly ways, but he'd never lost it. 

“Oh?” She asked, unbuckling her gauntlets and dropping them onto the nearest table before she knelt to get a fire started. If she was to get any decent sleep at all, she'd prefer a little more warmth, and she needed that sleep. It had been a long journey to get back to Northrend's shores.

“They assume you are dead. They do not realize that you live, yet. And when they realize that, it may take them some time to understand that you are not...” He paused, obviously working through his available phrases and weighing them against her mood... “As young as you once were.” 

“I am not lingering on death's door, Darion.” Well, not in the way that usually meant. She'd been regaining health and more importantly, clarity, since she'd turned the corner after her liberation. Physically, she was better than she'd been in years. Mentally, she was better than she'd been in years. Spiritually, well that was proving to be more of a struggle. 

“Of course you are not.” He pulled away from his shadow, striding toward her. “You have recovered well. Better than I dared to hope, better than we dared to hope.” He turned, moving to the window and staring out. “But you have questions. I can feel them.” 

“General?” 

His hood tilted and she heard the faintest whisper of a chuckle. “Are you not a general?” 

“Yes.” The fire had caught and she stood, resting her fingertips on the edge of the scarred table. It was like everything else in this room, heavy and functional. Not the most aesthetically pleasing, but it would do the job. “I am a general. I have been a general for years. I don't...know how to be anything but a general, now.” Which was part of it, she knew that. But it wasn't all of it. Just because she didn't know how to be anything else anymore didn't mean that the Ebon Blade should just hand it over to her. “But that doesn't explain why you have named me that for the Ebon Blade. They barely know me.”

“Most of them barely know anyone, Sorrow. That is our problem.” 

“I don't follow.” She was unsurprised that he chose to use the name which was not hers, but needed to become hers as quickly and smoothly as possible. That would only happen if it was embraced, used. 

“Most of those under our banner were raised immediately proceeding the assault on New Avalon. They are children. I cannot spare Thalanor or Thassarian because they are part of a handful of death knights that we have who have had the time to grasp and learn their gifts. Not only are you living, a paladin who can be seamlessly integrated into the Vanguard, you are our most experienced general. You would chafe under the lead of a younger, less experienced commander, especially one of the undead. This is where I need you. I need you to help me with this.” 

This is what I am meant to do. 

“Of course.” It was odd, but Bridge wished she understood more of what went into his death knights now. They had to have come from somewhere, once they'd been living. Darion remembered her, he remembered their past, surely the others did as well? “Darion, where did they come from? The new ones?” She was certain of two things, one...that she didn't really want to know, and two, that she really needed to know. 

“Many are from Light's Hope. The youngest of them are from your ranks, from Tyr's Hand and New Avalon. They were created in haste and were meant to be expendable, just good enough for what they were raised for. They were once yours, now they are ours.” 

Ours. If he wasn't lying, and she had no reason to believe that he was, then yes, they were as much hers as they were his. And she'd never been able to deny him anything that she truly felt he needed from her. If he truly lacked experienced command staff, if he truly needed a living liaison to...well, bridge... the gap between his people and the members of the Vanguard, especially those who plied the Light, then she would not deny him that. She'd asked for him to take a risk with her and he'd taken her up on that in spades. And really, what else was there to do? Lurk in the back of the Ebon Blade? Always be biting her tongue because she knew she was a better commander than most of those around her, unable to move on that? No, never. Darion knew her better than she seemed to know herself nowadays.

“I promise you, Darion. I will be the general you need.”


	3. Chapter 3

Bridge stirred into wakefulness slowly, curled into a tight ball against the chill. It was going to be brutal when she finally shifted, something she would put off as long as possible. She opened her eyes to the unimpressive view of a stained and cracking plaster wall. Not... her mind ran through the places she had been most recently. Not the barracks at New Avalon. Not her rooms in Acherus. A muffled flurry of noises from beneath her helped remind her of where she was, a bedroom in Valiance Keep. 

Back in Northrend. 

Of course, as if the chill wasn't a dead giveaway, only the worst winter days in Lordaeron had even approached this cold, and she knew this wasn't even cold...for Northrend. It seemed like she had been gone forever, but it had only been a handful of weeks. She sighed, finally giving in and stretching, hissing when she touched the cold bedding. Best thing was to just get it all over with as quickly as possible, she'd slept in a lot of her clothing and that would make this slightly easier. But only slightly. She was moving quickly the moment she committed and hit the floor, making the quick dash to the hearth and the rest of her clothing hanging from the chair in front of it. As hoped, the coals had banked down and still warmed the stones and the fabric. “Brrrh.” She growled, throwing her garments on before turning her attention to the coals. A quick stir, a few handfuls of kindling and she had enough of a flame going to add small logs and get a decent fire going again. It didn't matter that she was going downstairs, her stomach growled and gurgled unpleasantly and the very idea of food only made it worse. Her appetite was returning with leaps and bounds, she'd started to gain back weight and vitality after the first shaky few weeks away from New Hearthglen, away from the role of the Onslaught's mad High General. It didn't matter that she'd spent that time surrounded by the undead, the Light which clawed its way out of the prison she'd been caged in seemed mostly unfazed by their proximity. Certainly, the beginning had been difficult, physically uncomfortable and spiritually challenging but she had hope again. She had faith again. She wasn't a lost cause, simply a work in progress. 

There was an envelope on the floor next to the door, it had obviously been slid underneath sometime during the night and the idea made her bristle. She'd slept like...well, the dead. That was the last thing she was fighting against now. She'd been a tortuously light sleeper for years, haunted by nightmares and insomnia. Every slight sound had been guaranteed to jolt her awake, but slept the night through, undisturbed by the chill, by the keen of the winds, by the steps of the person who had slid something into her room and even the sounds of the living on the floor beneath her. She knew immediately that this had not come from Darion or any death knight. It felt rather mundane, untouched by anything that would stir up caution. She plucked it off of the dusty floor, turning it over in her mitted hands. Her new name was penned on the front, but the back seal was reason to pause. 

“Fancy, fancy.” She muttered under her breath, even that slight sound swallowed by her cowl. Not just any old seal of the Stormwind lion, quickly slapped on by a clerk somewhere, but a seal in perfect dark blue wax, imprinted by a deeply engraved signet ring. It lacked the flourish of ribbons and her name was written in a functional hand, no swirling calligraphy, no touch of gold paint applied to the wax to push it into the realm of originating from nobility. Bridge had seen enough of those to last her a lifetime or more...

“You are nobility now, Brigette. Perhaps it is time that you learned how to behave like it.” 

Her lips twisted at the memory and she fought the urge to spit. It had always been amazing just how her mother-in-law could turn her given name into an indictment, Bridge had hated the way it sounded on the woman's lips. 

I am not nobility. I am a general, the only born child of a general. I am a paladin, the only born child of one of our first paladins. 

Unfortunately, that was not entirely true and to embrace that...and only that...would be yet another lie told to herself. She was done with that. She could lie to others, hide what needed to be hidden, but she needed to be honest with herself, at least. She might have been born to that general, that paladin, but she had wedded a noble and had borne him children to carry on his noble blood and name... 

Enough of that. She stared at her written name, running her fingers over it. She'd seen this hand before, seen this seal before, letters like this had crossed her desk before, captured from messengers taken from the Dragonblight. 

Wyrmbane.

She suddenly felt like a fraud, like a spy...like a traitor, and she leaned against the wall next to the door.   
No one said this was going to be easy.

No, but this was going to be damned hard. She'd dealt with Wyrmbane's people the same way she'd dealt with everything else she'd viewed as a threat and the memory chased away the healthy hunger she'd had only moments before, twisting her guts. And now, she held a letter from him, directly addressed to her. She sighed, breaking the seal and spreading the parchment open against the wall, skimming the words. Any doubts that she had correctly identified the sender were gone in an instant, this had been written by the same person who had written each of Wyrmbane's messages that her people had intercepted. There was a faint chance that he had an aide-de-camp, a clerk, but she doubted that this had been generated by one of those. 

She reread it, slowly, lingering on certain parts. This was the first time she'd seen, in writing, what Darion had sold her as. General Sorrow, General-at-large representing the Ebon Blade, liaison to the Valiance Expedition.

Well, it did have a certain rather pretentious ring to it, but Darion had always had that streak. And if this was going to work, that's exactly how the others needed to see her as, and quickly. Things had already gone too far for her to sell herself the way that she would prefer to, by proving herself as a leader and commander on the field. That would have to come later, or perhaps sooner. This requested her presence at Wyrmbane's base to meet with him and 'others' to 'continue plans and coordination'. 

My spies would have been beside themselves with joy if they'd intercepted this. 

Yes, yes they would have. Or they might be. It would be folly to forget everything she knew because she was so desperate to leave it all behind her. She shook her head, staring at 'her' small travel chest sitting under the window. Hopefully, those who had packed it for her had more foresight than she had as to what role Darion had determined she would play here and had included writing supplies so that she could be that liaison her new title claimed her to be. 

Unsurprisingly, they did. There was a box with a full writing set inside, including a signet for the Ebon Blade and a supply of dark purple wax. She sat with it, staring at a fresh sheet of parchment for a long time before she uncapped an ink bottle and began to write, accepting Wyrmbane's invitation in a hand she hadn't used in years. While it would help maintain the masquerade, she knew that just as she recognized Wyrmbane's writing, he stood a good chance of recognizing hers...at least, what it had become later. When she'd been a young paladin, and a young wife to a noble house, she'd had fine penmanship. It had fallen like so many things that had once been a part of her, she'd considered it too graceful, too feminine, not strong enough. But now it was something she fully intended to claim again. She signed her new name at the bottom with a flourish, sanded the ink dry, folded it and sealed it carefully, writing his name on the front of the envelope. 

It was time to get this started.


	4. Chapter 4

And starting things always went best on a full stomach. She stepped into the hallway, ignoring the voice in her head. It was just her own doubts, her own misgivings, not the whispers of a demon using her. She could beat herself, rise beyond it. She had to remember what she had been, grab it back...and to do that meant she had to deal with people. People who weren't controlled by that same demon, people living under their own volition, many of them directed by the Light. 

I am...

It had been so long, was it truly something she could grab back? At least in her own heart? She wasn't going to go running straight back to Tirion...

Why not?

Well, that one was easy. She had to earn back the right to consider herself Brigitte Fordring before she could ever ask Tirion to consider her that. She'd lost so much of what he had prized, been part of what had driven him to the brink. 

But he stepped back.

Yes, but all he'd done was leave, which to him would undoubtedly be a terrible atrocity that he needed to atone for until the day he died. If only she had done the same, followed his lead instead of labeling him a coward and turning away from him. She could have turned Taelan, they could have all gone off and hidden together. 

It was a fine and bright idea, gilded with a perfect coat of hindsight and clarity. Taelan was dead and gone, beyond her reach. This opportunity was all she had left. 

Unsurprisingly, the common room was packed with people and while Brigitte was not a large person, the very design of her armor created a large presence, both physically and spiritually. It was meant to make her impressive, imposing, easy to find on the battlefield, with an ominous edge as a nod to her allegiance to the Ebon Blade. He had not crafted a paladin set, but an Ebon Blade set for a paladin. People edged away from her and all she could remember was how she edged away from Darion in the same way. This was how Darion wanted her to be perceived as, both good and bad. She'd always stand out, be held slightly away...but wasn't that what she needed? She wasn't ready or willing to be one of the brotherhood right now. That meant that they had grounds to ask, to pry, to even expect her to open up, to truly be one of them. And that was something she couldn't do or be, yet. Maybe later. Maybe if she earned it. 

She took a seat at the farthest end of a table, measuring the mood of the room. Nothing seemed awry except for her appearance, and even that didn't seem to affect most of those surrounding her. They had plenty of experience with death knights now, the new and unusual was wearing off of it. 

“Can I help you?” There was the edge of doubt in the voice, and Bridge completely understood it. She'd spent enough time on Acherus to grasp that feeding death knights was a questionable and puzzling endeavor. She'd seen them eat, she'd seen them not eat. Some drank, some didn't. And she'd been wise enough not to ask what those who did eat...would eat. 

“I'll have a meal. And coffee, if you have it. Tea if you don't.”

The innkeep paused as if he was waiting for something, then moved off, muttering to himself when she remained stubbornly silent. It was bad enough to be mistaken for a death knight, but it would be intolerable if it meant going hungry for Darion's sense of pageantry and mystery. Eventually people were going to realize that she was most certainly not a death knight, most certainly not undead. There was no reason to start a charade that she'd just have to overcome later. 

It wasn't much of a wait, the innkeep was back with a plate and mug, warily placing them down in front of her. Coffee, bread, sausage, eggs, cheese...it all looked wonderful. 

“Thank you.” It would be good to eat normal food in normal surroundings. She didn't want to become inured to Acherus, to Darion's death knights. She needed to respect them, work with them, but she needed to keep some sort of separation. She wasn't a death knight. She was a paladin, still. Darion was correct, she needed to be here. As this. 

She placed a coin on the table and it vanished into the innkeep's apron pocket before she could finish a blink. Most of these people belonged to a unit and their quartermasters had probably opened up a line of credit to pay for them, but Darion had made it clear that she did not have the same when he'd handed her a bag of coins to pay for her keep along the way. 

She ate, savoring the flavors. It was like food had taste again, everything felt more solid, more real. The smells, the warmth, the voices, even the stares. Interactions with people who weren't Crusaders, who didn't have the exact same hooks in their soul that she had once had. It was all so new and yet so familiar. 

“Are you certain that you want to risk going where you are going?” 

At least the new hook in her soul was forthright enough to openly speak to her. It was not common, but it was hardly the first time that Amal'thazad had deigned to communicate with her directly. 

“I am not a hook. I am an anchor.”

Probably true. It had been a long time since she'd been free of claws, of taint.

“Longer than you even suspect.” 

Well, that was comforting. She emptied her mug and set it on her plate, leaving the last ominous phrase to consider later and focusing on the actual warning couched as a question. Wyrmbane commanded the 7th Legion, elite troops, the best that Stormwind had to field. That should be warning enough...

“You are aware of your death warrant.” 

Yes, yes she was. 

“You'll find the man who signed it there. He knows you well enough. Do you have that much faith in my ability to keep you obscured?” 

She had to. If she avoided every single paladin who 'knew her well enough', she might as well just bow out and go live in Westfall. She was here to fight, she was here to lead. 

“Good, good. Go.”

She had every intention to do just that.


	5. Chapter 5

She climbed the stairs back to her room, carefully packing her belongings. Although she had been taken with nearly nothing, Darion had been generous. It was necessary, of course, to sell her as that general. To maintain the idea that the Ebon Blade was able to field well equipped personnel. She was the one who would stand in front of those who would be looking for any cracks, any chinks in that. Everything about her would be noted, measured, reported on. It was just how it was. The best way to handle it was to be herself. Not what she had become, but who she actually was. Brigitte Fordring had not been a force in decades. Many people might 'know' High General Abbendis 'well enough' to pick her out of a disguise. Only Tirion knew Brigitte well enough. 

She shouldered her bags, took one last look around the room to make certain she had not forgotten anything and stepped back into the hallway, moving down the stairs and through the common room, emerging into the wan, hazy sunlight. 

It was easy enough to weave her way through and around the clusters of troops, moving towards the squawks of gryphons piercing through the muttering conversations and creaking equipment.

She was unsurprised when she climbed up to the platform and gained the instant attention of the gryphon master. “I need to go to Wintergarde.” That would not only send her to the person who had signed a death warrant for her, it would also put her uncomfortably close to New Hearthglen. 

I refuse to run from them. 

She'd hide, certainly. That was a necessity. But she wasn't going to languish in Valiance Keep for long, they were here for the Lich King and that meant moving towards Wintergarde anyway. There was a reason she'd put New Hearthglen in that area in the first place. That had always been the second step towards Icecrown. Wintergarde was the Alliance's second step towards Icecrown. That was where she needed to be and she had a personal invitation echoing that. 

“Or, I could just...send you there. Why waste the time traveling there? And honestly, Brigitte Abbendis would be the absolute last person that Dawnbringer would expect to arrive in such a fashion...” 

And there was a reason for that. The very idea set her teeth on edge. However, it didn't seem to be any worse than other things she'd done/had done to herself in this. 

“It's a long, cold way there. You know that better than most.”

Yes, yes she did. And it was still early to start wearing herself out simply answering an invitation. Lazy, silly. You'll get yourself into trouble all over again by... 

By what? Relying on her support? That wasn't what had pulled her down in the first place, was it? 

“No. You were bound to fall. Someone close to you set that in motion before you were even a paladin. Someone failed you, Brigitte. Failed so many of you...” The lich's 'voice' trailed off for a moment. “Not now. That cannot be changed, it is in the past. Wintergarde, Wyrmbane, that is here and now.”

“I don't have a gryphon to spare for a journey that long on such short notice, ma'am, not at the moment. Perhaps in a week or so...?”

Well, that clenched that one. Adding a week to this journey was out of the question. “Fi...” Reality jolted around her and the temperature plunged, her breath freezing in her nostrils. “...ne.” She sighed. Thankfully, this seemed to be a common enough occurrence that no arrows rained down on top of her. She had acquired several wary stares, it was obvious that if she seemed to misbehave more than appearing without warning, she'd be an immediate target from multiple angles. 

“I have an invitation.” She pulled it out, holding it cautiously in front of her. “From Commader Wyrmbane.” 

 

One of the guards moved closer, pulling off his helmet, his gaze flicking between where her face was and the envelope. “You are?” He finally asked, taking the envelope from her grip and inspecting it. 

“Sorrow. From the Ebon Blade.” 

“Death knight. Well, I guess I should have expected this.” He frowned, obviously loathe to give the envelope back to her. Bridge considered arguing the most obvious point, but if she tried to correct every single person who was going to mistake her for a death knight, she'd die of old age before she made it to Icecrown. “Welcome to Wintergarde.” There was a bit of a lack of that 'welcome' in his voice and Bridge simply tilted her head at him. The place was about what she was expecting; gray, uninspiring, somewhat depressing, a sprawling cluster of blocky buildings. 

New Hearthglen is beautiful...

And it was filled with rot. She'd planned it to be worthy, graceful, shining. The place her people would find refuge, a new life, in. But there was no new life, only more of the same. 

“Thank you.” Another thing that wasn't worth rising to. “Where might I find Commander Wyrmbane?” 

“This way.” He waved her to follow him, striding through the muddied yard towards the keep. He was just on the edge of moving too quickly for her to follow without hopping like an idiot, and that was her final straw. She was not going to chase him, she'd been invited here, she was carrying her bags. Let him outdistance her, he'd either be forced to come back for her or wait. If he did neither, she'd just ask the next person she found to point her in the right direction. 

He was waiting just inside when she hit the threshold and she gave him a long disapproving silence when she drew up as close to him as she intended to get. “Was that necessary?” She finally asked, well aware of what the cowl did to her voice. 

“No. My apologies, it was not necessary. This way...please.” He led her around the main hall and up a set of stairs, into a large room in the back of the keep. The space was dominated by a large table, two men seated at the end, one directly facing the door. Wyrmbane. He had that look, that feel that so many commanders developed over the years. The second man sitting alongside him, closer to the door caused a bit more of a hiccup. Dawnbringer. Of course. Who else? He'd been butting heads against her and hers for years, he'd tried negotiations, he'd tried combat and he'd finally resorted to coin and a death warrant to try to stop her. 

It was a path that Bridge could respect, at the very least. His crusade against her had always been calm, well thought out and untainted by anger.   
Both men had turned their heads, Dawnbringer looked both curious and concerned...Wyrmbane looked like everything he was expecting had just walked through his door. 

Distinct possibility. 

She had no illusions, she was in the middle of two very good opposing forces, and the price was her identity. Amal'thazad's job was to keep it a mystery, The prize for Wyrmbane's people would be to put the correct name to her, and she knew they had enviable resources. They'd made deep inroads into gathering intelligence in New Hearthglen, and she'd given them even more to work with. 

“General Sorrow.” 

Well, at least Wyrmbane managed to make it sound like he had indeed sent her an invitation. He had a good voice, easy to listen to. 

“Commander Wyrmbane.” It was easier to focus on him and push Dawnbringer off to the side. “I received your invitation.” He felt...there. A solid soul, wrapped up in the Light, just like the men she'd grown up around. He was thinner than she'd been expecting, with close cut dark blond hair and hazel eyes, a narrow mouth and a slightly off kilter, rather prominent nose. 

“Good, good. I wasn't certain that you would. Mograine did not exactly state a method for me to contact you with any sort of ease.” He stood, pushing out the chair to his left with a foot. Unfortunately, that particular seat would put her directly across from Dawnbringer, but fussing over it would make her unease obvious. “This is Crusade Commander Dawnbringer...” 

And that just sounded so very wrong. Brigitte knew that the 'Crusade' in question was not hers, but to hear Eligor Dawnbringer hailed as a Commander...of a Crusade... It was still both amusing and disturbing that the forces on the ground here decided that they were also a Crusade, just of a different color. 

“Eligor, this is General Sorrow.” 

Just go right through the middle of this...

She extended her bare hand to him without hesitation. “Commander.” He thought she was dead. Gone. He wasn't looking for her. He took it a little more warily than she'd offered it, then paused, tilting his head measuringly. 

“General.” He held it for a moment too long before letting it go, giving Wyrmbane a side glance. 

“We may as well drop that, or this is going to get very tedious very quickly. Commander Commander General sounds like a child's circle game. Call me by a name, either one you prefer.” 

“Agreed.” Dawnbringer stated, doing his best to not stare too obviously at her. Finally he just shook his head, leaned back in his chair and folded his arms over his chest. “You're as much a death knight as I am...Sorrow?”

“Sorrow, yes. And no, I'm not a death knight. I yet live.” That would have been obvious from the moment he touched her, but even had she worn gauntlets, gloves, he would know it anyway. Both of them would. She simply could not sit in a room with two other paladins and successfully masquerade as undead without a lot of meddling from the lich. Nor did she particularly want to try. Her calling was one of the few things she still had left. “I was once counted among the Order.” 

That was not what he'd been expecting. He sat up slowly, his gaze flicking between her and the silent Wyrmbane. “You...were...a paladin?” 

“I am a paladin. I was a member of the Order. Now I am a member of the Ebon Blade.” She didn't blame him. If she was in his shoes, she'd have the exact same uncomprehending expression displayed on his features. 

“Interesting life choice.” Wyrmbane maneuvered deftly into the sudden silence. “It answers as many questions as it spawns. The Ebon Blade has a paladin that Mograine is willing to trust, in his words, implicitly.” 

“Yes.” The only surprise with that was that Darion would state it so bluntly, but he'd obviously been working at this more than she'd thought. Of course, the sooner he got her into this position, the sooner he could distance himself from it all. Let Bridge deal with the living. “They do.”

“So you're willing to work for them and with us? As Mograine's liaison and general? You have experience?” He sounded relieved, almost hopeful, while it was now Dawnbringer's turn to be the silent, watchful one. 

“I have utterly no experience at being the liaison for the Ebon Blade, but a good amount of experience as a commander in the field.” It was a regrettable thing to have to admit to, but it wasn't something she could hide without falling into deliberate incompetency. And she refused to do that. 

Wyrmbane joined Dawnbringer in a moment of silence, resting his forehead on his hand and studying the tabletop with a grave focus. “Fine.” He stated firmly, obviously coming to a decision. “What does Mograine send you with? I see you've been more than adequately equipped with armor and weapon...”

“Maps, intelligence, coin, standard kit. Access to certain services that I'd prefer to only use in dire circumstances.” 

“Understood. No staff?” Wyrmbane stood, moving to the window and staring out. 

“They fall under 'certain services for dire circumstances'.” And Bridge wasn't exactly keen on the idea of having staff, not from the Ebon Blade or really anybody else. She'd had one before, of course, but that was something she'd left behind. 

He grunted slightly, nodding that he understood what she meant by that. “Mograine stated you were at liberty to choose your own home base. He seems quite willing to let you go wherever you see fit.” 

Because he trusts me. Because I go where he doesn't want to go. Because eventually, if I do this right, I can be accepted. You'll never quite accept any of his people. Always held apart, by both sides. 

“That is my job.” 

“Then I'd ask you to consider basing here, at least to start. Valiance Keep is not where the fight is going to stage from, and it's busily falling into a mess we don't have the time or luxury to deal with. Politics, Horde distractions, the nerubians pushing on it. Arlos is worthless. If you're here to actually lead and fight, it's no place for you.” 

“Sounds like a plan.”


	6. Chapter 6

“What game is Mograine playing at?”   
That was an interesting question, but it was based on an assumption that Halford was not sure was correct. If they decided this was a 'game' before even looking at it, then why should Mograine trust them at all? Why even bother to ask for support from anyone they'd just assume would answer them with a 'game'? “What makes you think he's playing a game?” Nothing in Mograine's letters felt false, if anything, he felt like a shadow of Halford's struggle... trying desperately to do something. To ignore politics and distractions, to keep moving resolutely northward, focused on bringing the fight to Arthas's gates. That was the whole reason of why they were supposed to be here in the first place.   
“Then is she the one playing?” Eligor demanded slowly.   
“I trust Sorrow implicitly. Her words are as mine.” Mograine had been utterly clear in this, she was his proxy. She spoke for him. She was his choice. If this was to have any chance of working, then Halford had to at least give it a try. He had to give Mograine the opportunity to fail, to betray.   
Better now than later.   
“You assume that it is a game.”   
“No self respecting paladin would represent the Ebon Blade! None of us would swear to them, Halford.” There was that. On the surface, it seemed to be quite valid. Why, why, why would any 'self respecting' paladin choose this route? It wasn't as if there were no places on the front for anyone willing to come here. Even without a calling such as what she claimed, a claim that could be so very easily disproven if it was a falsehood, they'd probably take her in as a volunteer. Not with him, the 7th was an elite unit, but other units would. All she'd need was a basic grasp of combat. Lying about a calling was just...empty. Foolish. It wasn't even worth a moment of Mograine's attention and it would just get her killed in her first contact with an enemy. No, something else was going on. The Ebon Blade had bothered to kit her out in a manner definitely befitting the position they wanted her to claim. That armor was masterwork, forged for her. She wore it like a soldier.   
But Eligor was right, no self respecting paladin would swear to Mograine. Was the question paladin, self respecting, or sworn to Mograine? Again, her calling...or lack of...would come out, and soon.   
“You touched her.” Yes, and Halford had not missed how purposeful that was. It would answer the most basic question, which was probably why she'd done it.  
“She is alive. And she is too healthy to be a member of the Cult of the Damned.”  
“And yet, you'd trust a death knight more than an alive and healthy woman who comes with the same credentials that the best of Mograine's have.” And that was a problem.   
“I'd understand it more. It would be...less of a betrayal.”   
Betrayal. Unfortunately, that was exactly how many of the Order would see this. And that was precisely the sort of infighting that he was struggling to get beyond. “What does it matter what color of tabard she wears if she's willing and ready to fight beside us? As long as she's a paladin? The Horde has paladins and they aren't members of our Order. So now the Ebon Blade has...one.”   
“You've already made up your mind.” There was an acceptance in Eligor's voice, which was good, because Halford was already tired of arguing. He understood the warning, he knew the caution was valid but it was simply too damned obvious. If she was anything, she was a distraction, a sleight of hand. He doubted it, though. Mograine seemed to be as focused on dragging Arthas down as Halford was. Throwing up a distraction should gain him nothing.   
“I have, yes.” Mograine had sent him a general, a liaison. Somehow he'd managed to come up with a living, breathing, possibly paladin, general and liaison.   
“Well, I must admit that I am intrigued, but I will not pry. You have others who will do that better than I could.” Eligor stood from his place at the table, shaking his head. “Halford, just be cautious. You have to admit this smells fishy.”  
“Very fishy. Too fishy.” If Mograine wanted to put someone in, he could have simply given the same letters of introduction and fancy gear to one of his death knights and they'd accept that in a moment.   
“Too fishy. I see your point.”   
“I will be cautious, Eligor.” But not so cautious that he would pass over an opportunity. He'd asked for help. He'd asked for unity. And Mograine had seen fit to send him Sorrow...whoever she was, whatever she was. “I am going to go check on our guest.” By now, she would have rooms and would have had a little time to at least put her bags down. He'd give her a little more by taking the long way around, but not so much that she got too comfortable. He was aware that she had arrived by magical means, and that no living mage had been involved, but that didn't mean her day had been easy. He'd hate to wake her up.  
He moved through the keep, taking his time, before coming to the officer's hall. That in itself was probably a bother for Eligor, but there was no other place to put a 'general', even if it meant putting her just doors down from Halford, from Eligor. There was a guard at the juncture, exactly as there should be.   
“General Sorrow?”   
“There.” The guard pointed at a door, the closest door to where he stood, the farthest door from Halford's chambers. Unsurprising, but they were still fine rooms. He stepped up and knocked lightly, hard enough to be heard if she was awake yet not strongly enough to disturb her if she was not.   
“Come in.”   
He stepped in, closing the door firmly behind him. She sat in a chair, a low table pulled up in front of her, a pile of maps, papers, folders stacked on it. She'd taken off her armor, it sat upended in the corner, ready for a single person to get into it as quickly as possible.   
“Hope I am not interrupting...” She couldn't look less like a paladin if she tried to, clad in unrelieved black from head to toe, face still obscured by a cowl. He took the moment to measure her, relying on his other senses.   
She is alive.   
No doubt. He wasn't as fine a healer as Eligor was, he had not physically touched her, as Eligor had, but he could still sense that. And more importantly, he could feel the Light's hold on her. That did not guarantee that she was a paladin, but she had a calling, either paladin or priest. And there was no reason to call her a paladin if she was a priest, both were highly prized. There was no reason to put her in plate if she was a priest. No reason to give her an axe and a shield. That was counter productive.   
A paladin.   
“No, you are not interrupting. I would have brought these to you anyway.” She waved at the pile with the only part of her body left bare, her hands. “Pull up a chair. We'll go over what I have here.” That was not her natural voice, it was a trick to make her sound like a death knight. Why? Why hide her features, why change her voice? No self respecting paladin...   
“If you are not tired...” He grabbed a chair from the corner and pulled it over, sitting and staring at the main map she had rolled out on the surface. That in itself would be worth his time, worth listening to her. This is the intelligence that the Ebon Blade holds...  
Of course. Some of their members had been in Northrend for years, they'd absorbed members from many different expeditions, different races. They'd traveled the width and breadth of the continent.   
“I am not tired. I have had plenty of sleep and I have eaten recently.” She rested her hands on the map and he studied them. Hands told a story and hers were no different. Human, female, pale. Not a youngster, the tendons visible, veins slightly prominent. She wore a single, rather subdued ring on her left ring finger, a narrow gold band inset with small diamonds. Her nails were cut short and there was a faded scar across her right knuckles. Not pretty hands, exactly as he was expecting.   
“Mograine speaks highly of your abilities.” He stated slowly, uncertain how far to push that. Yes, Mograine did...but. “What position did you see yourself holding?”   
“The main concern is that the members of the Ebon Blade are not viewed as disposable. They...we...are not. My main position is oversight in situations in which we work in tandem with the living. I expect to be kept apprised of those. As for myself, I am here for the same reason you are. They are...” She flicked her fingers in the general direction of the yard. “To bring down the Lich King. I expect to be useful in that. Right now, I expect you to put me in a place where I have the chance to prove my abilities. I understand that, since I cannot...will not...tell you my experience that you'll need me to show it to you instead. So, put me under one of your commanders, in the field, and let me do that.”   
“Of course. Give me a couple of days to decide which one is best suited to this. So, are you the sort of paladin that your weapons seem to hint? Not a healer? In the front, nose to nose?”  
“My calling is to stand, nose to nose. It has been awhile since I've been given the luxury to do so...” Even with the enchantments that altered it, the change in her voice was evident, there was regret there. “But I would welcome the chance to stand again.”   
“I will make that happen.” Even if I have to take you with me.   
“Good, good. Here, take this. I have copies.” She rolled up the map and offered it to him. “Thank you.”   
“No need to thank me. But I will leave you alone for now.” He took the map and tucked it under his arm. “I will be assigning you an aide that I will select to be able to handle your needs and I will be looking for someone for you to work with until I know exactly where I need you at. Good day, Sorrow.”   
“Good day, Wyrmbane.”


	7. Chapter 7

Bridge sighed, staring out over the yard. The last thing in the world that she wanted was an aide, but it was obvious that she was going to get one in spite of that. She hadn't really had one before, she'd gone from being the junior Abbendis, serving alongside her father, alongside Mograine, to being Taelan's wife. She'd had a household staff, befitting that, but none of them had been a military aide. There had been a terribly short break in there, having babies, stepping away from her calling, away from the Order. 

Once, I considered putting down my weapons. 

That hadn't lasted for long. She'd been a fool to hope otherwise then, but that was the past. Mardenholde was blessedly far away, and she had plenty of things to distract her here, to keep her from ruminating on things she could not change. 

“I don't need an aide.” She muttered, ignoring the slight rustling behind her. It didn't matter how fast she spun, she'd never catch it. At first, in Acherus, it had terrified her...more shadows caught out of the corner of her eye, just like in New Hearthglen. Mad, worthless, all of the words had come up again to haunt her. Now, she knew exactly what it was and that she wasn't mad. At least not mad when it came to this...it really was there. And it played a game with her, it would let her know it was there, just like this...a swiftly fleeting shadow, the tiniest whisper of a noise. If she spun, nothing would be there. If she ignored it, she would turn and whatever it brought would be there, but it would be gone. 

“And I don't need you.” 

And she was talking to herself, because it had already left. She turned, moving back to the table, picking up the black leather bound folder sitting conspicuously where the map had been rolled out. She opened it, pulling out its contents. More maps, scraps of paper, an envelope, and an ornately bound purple book. 

What are you up to, Darion? You son of a... 

This was an object she never, ever wanted to see again in her life. It was the very expression of her own insanity, her own corruption. Why, why, why would Darion have sent this to her? Only he could have. But she refused to open it, refused to look at it, refused to read it. Just the rantings of a madwoman. Just the rantings of a pawn. I am no longer that person. 

Annoyed, she opened the envelope and scanned it. It was in Darion's handwriting, no doubt there. She'd helped him learn it. 

“Sorrow.

Amal'thazad has informed you have moved to Wintergarde on High Commander Wyrmbane's invitation. I know you understand the risks involved with that, and I do understand that you must move onward to Icecrown to achieve our goals. On a closer note, I have been working to recover some of your personal possessions, including this book. It is yours to do with as you see fit, of course. I thought you'd want to be the one to deal with it, rather than leaving it in their hands. Some things are best removed from those who might be able to use it to trace you.

I will be sending more information about the area you are currently in, I know you are mostly familiar with it, but some of the details may have changed or you may have been unaware of them. 

Suffer well, sister.

Darion.”

The single page began to crumble in her fingers, dissipating into a fine powdery ash that blew away into nothingness. 

She sighed, glaring at the book. Of course he was correct, leaving this book in the hands of the Onslaught, of whatever Westwind had become, was dangerous. There was no way to change that her words in this had been used to continue to corrupt those around her, no way to avoid the fact that she was undoubtedly being used as a martyr since her 'death'. But she could reject the book's physical presence now. She tossed it without ceremony over her shoulder, onto the coals in the grate. It didn't deserve more than that, no grand show of its importance, simply trash like so many other things consigned to burn away to nothing. Well, mostly nothing...she'd have to do something about the wrought silver ornamentation decorating the cover, but that was not the words, not the reason to destroy this. Her words in it were the poison, the book itself had never been enchanted.

Done, gone, time to turn back to her current issues. She stared around the room, it was the antechamber for what was probably supposed to be 'her' room, she'd dropped her bags onto the small bed along the wall but if there was an 'aide', that was for them. Although this small room was comfortable enough for her and she would be perfectly happy in it, it didn't seem like that was how it was going to be. 

An aide might be useful.

Unfortunately so. It had been a very long time since she'd been a part of the Order, since she'd been anything but a member of the Scarlet Crusade. She wasn't going to fall seamlessly back into an organization that had probably changed as much in the past fifteen years as she had. She'd been leading in a bubble, isolated from those outside of the Crusade. She didn't even know who was in charge now. While she had no intention of returning to the Order as a member, as one of the whole, she would still need to work alongside them. But it would mean spending a lot of time with a stranger, just someone else to work to hide from.   
No one said this was going to be easy. 

No. No one had. Darion had offered her the chance to gracefully bow out of all of this and she had chosen to come to the field.


End file.
